Broken Series
by Ayaren
Summary: Sydney is sick of betrayal so she goes to the one man who has yet to hurt her for help, Sark. The whole Broken Series in one spot so you can read it all at once and in the right order. Includes BlackWinged Angel et al.
1. Under A Shadow

All right, since there seems to be some confusion with people finding earlier fics in the series and asking me to write more I've decided to put all the fics in the series in one place.

I know, I should have done that in the first place but since I wrote the whole thing out of order and never intended to make it a series in the first place that was kinda impossible.

So here it is, in its complete (almost) state and in order of reading …

The Broken Series:

Under A Shadow 

Descent

Black-Winged Angel

Acceptance

(And … coming soon … Endgame)

Cheers, Ayaren.

* * *

Disclaimer: Alias is not mine. 

Title: Under A Shadow

Author: Ayaren (aka Abyssinian)

Rating: G (I suppose)

Timeline: AU S2 post-Indicator.

Summary: They lived under the same shadow.

A/N: Many thanks to my buddy Luce for betaing the whole series, without her I wouldn't be quite this obsessed about Alias.

**

* * *

**

**Broken Part One: _Under A Shadow_**

It was not until _he_ said something that she realised she was anything but 'ok'.

She thought she had dealt with it. That the knowledge the spy world had chosen her when she had been too young to make that decision for herself was acceptable, if not yet entirely all right. She thought she might even be able to forgive her father one day, because even while she condemned his actions as the worst kind of betrayal she found herself understanding why. After all, what parent would not do anything to protect their child?

Even so she found herself relying on her ability to compartmentalise more than ever. A wry voice inside her head suggested that if she boxed up any more feelings she would need to start a filing system if she ever wanted to find them again. She ran through the list in her mind. Firstly if she wanted to stay alive she had to treat the man who killed her fiancé like a second dad. Then she had to hide her knowledge of SD-6's true affiliation and her own double agent status. Lying to Dixon in particular left her guilt-ridden more than once. Of course she could not forget having to keep her job secret from Francie —thankfully life was a little easier now Will knew, not much but it helped. Then there was that whole mess with her mother. Oh, and then trying to maintain a professional distance from Agent Vaughn when he was one of the few people she felt she could actually trust.

And now add Daddy to the list, she muttered bitterly. She had to work with him every day and pretend to Sloane there was no rift between them at all.

Yep, she was going to go insane one of these days. That or change her name and move to the tropics.

And yet, another part of her whispered, she got herself into these situations, some of which could have been avoided. She liked it, the voice accused. She enjoyed the drama of it all, her own personal soap opera.

Maybe that was why she was standing in front of _his_ door. Well, the door to the hotel room she had to great lengths to discover he was currently occupying. Because she knew, no matter what happened, she was just adding a further complication to her already convoluted life.

Of course, she would not have been Sydney Bristow if things were easy.

And she had to exorcise him from her mind, rid herself of his voice, his smirk, telling her the truths she had hidden from herself. She had to confront him and tell him he was wrong, and then maybe she would sleep in peace. Hopefully.

Taking a deep breath to calm her already nervous mind she stepped forward and raised a hand to knock. Before she could do his amused voice piped up to her left and she spun, hand instinctively going to the gun holstered in the small of her back.

He was leaning casually against the wall and smirking at her as he informed her he had been watching for the past five minutes. She just glared at him, partly in embarrassment, as he swept past her and unlocked the door with a flourish, gesturing for her to enter before him.

She took one last furtive glance down the corridor and then slipped inside, her body trembling with anticipation as she sunk awkwardly onto the room's couch. Her eyes followed him as he moved into the bathroom, stripping off his black jacket and sweater as he went. It was obvious he had just returned from a job. Idly she wondered who his target had been and then decided she was better off not knowing.

She knew what he was and she was not here to condemn him. She did wonder at his trust in her though as he willingly left her alone while he showered. Perhaps he had known she would come, and that tonight she meant him no harm.

It was just like him to know her so well. Some part of her thought he understood her more than anyone, more than her father or Vaughn, or even herself, but she ruthlessly suppressed that notion. He did not know her, not at all.

And yet, out of everyone she had come to him.

He emerged moments later clad in the same trousers but shirtless as he towelled his hair dry, pushing the blonde curls back from his eyes. She watched him cross to the wardrobe in unabashed appreciation, her gaze focussed on the muscles of his back. He was not a broad man, but within his slender frame was a body hardened by years of training.

Pulling on a shirt he apologised for his lack of manners, citing her unexpected arrival as an excuse. She shrugged, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear, not missing the flash that passed through his eyes at the movement. She had seen that before in her father. Somehow the action reminded both men of the other woman they had in common. Jack's wife. Sark's teacher. Her mother.

She accepted the drink he offered her, forcing icy fingers to clench around the glass. It was testimony to the trust she was placing in him that she did not even consider the possibility it was drugged before she drank.

Watching him sprawl across a nearby chair with the careless grace of a cat she instinctively knew that tonight they had called a truce. She needed something from him and he was curious to know what it was. She set the glass down on the coffee table and leaned forward with a sigh.

It was now or it was never.

With that indecipherable blue gaze focussed on her she just let go and told him everything she had not been able to tell anyone else. Even to her it seemed strange, almost other-worldly that this man, her nemesis, was the only one she felt would understand. He was everything she strove to destroy, but none of that mattered right now. After all it had been his words, a taunt spoke merely to provoke her for his own amusement during their last confrontation, which had brought her to his door.

At the time she had been disgusted that he would dare to liken their respective situations and bitten back with a fairly standard reply consisting of a mix of insults, physical blows and the determined insistence that they were _nothing_ alike. They had nothing in common, she said, he was bad and she was good and that was all he needed to know.

But later when she knew she should just forget those words she found she could not. Words she had brushed off with ease on the previous occasions when he used them against her echoed over and over in her mind. They were designed merely to throw her off, to get her angry so that she was not thinking as clearly as she should have been. It was just another one of his weapons and usually she had been able to ignore it.

Only this time what he said was true and she was no longer capable of denying it. She was tired of trusting no one to watch her back, she said with an air of defeat, and so was he.

He arched an eyebrow at that but made no move to deny it. She was more perceptive than he had given her credit for. A faint frown creased his forehead as he asked her what he was supposed to do about it. They were enemies after all, she had no business bringing her problems to him.

Which brought him to ask the very question she had known he would and hoped to avoid answering: Why was she here now? Why not go to her beloved boy scout?

Because as her enemy he was the one person she expected to betray her, and he was the one person who had not done so. Because she did not care about him and therefore she could not hurt him. And, more importantly, he could not hurt her.

She recounted her list as he contemplated her words with the air of a man tasting wine. Project Christmas. Laura Bristow. The Alliance. Even Alice, Vaughn's perfect little girlfriend found her way onto Sydney Bristow's list. Her father had taken away her choices. Her mother had lied from the beginning. The Alliance were just the bad guys and Vaughn, the one person she had thought she could trust, had returned to his oblivious blonde once again. And then there were her friends, Will had been brought into something he never should have known because of her, his life destroyed for love of her.

She was sick of having to lie to the people she cared about, of expecting everyone around her to betray her some day. She was tired of placing her trust in someone only to discover her mistake in the most painful of ways. Arvin Sloane. Noah Hicks. Jack Bristow. Irina Derevko. Even Michael Vaughn and Will Tippin had betrayed her, the former blind to the love she felt and the latter ignoring her pleas to leave Danny's death alone.

Her shoulders slumped and she buried her face in her hands. It was too much for one person to handle alone, she told him. Surely he understood the destructive nature of their work. Surely he could sympathise with her. After all, was that not the reason why he was so cold, so unapproachable? To keep others away.

They were poison, she said, he knew it too.

He did not answer her.

Those oft-despised blue eyes offered nothing when she chanced another glance at them. Her host merely raised his glass to his lips and drank. She could see the lingering suspicion in the faintest of frowns creasing his forehead. He was well aware of her skills as an actress and it was clear he was not entirely convinced by her display.

Whatever courage had possessed her to seek him out fled in the face of his scepticism. The mask that had hidden her for longer than she cared to remember gave way as he maintained his silence. The control she had prided herself for vanished as she let the first flush of tears come. Her body shuddered with the release of over a year of the most strenuous suppression and she drew her knees up to chest, rocking slightly as she wept for the Sydney Bristow who had been lost so long ago.

He watched without speaking, the only sounds in the room the hum of the electricity and her wracking sobs. She felt his gaze on her and some part of her inwardly thanked him. He would offer her no comfort, real or otherwise. That was what made him different.

Yet, to her surprise, she felt his body settle onto the couch next to hers and another drink was thrust into her hands. He was careful to leave space between them as he leaned his elbows on his thighs and stared out the windows.

Tears continued to mark a trail down her cheeks but she raised her head to look at him.

Perhaps, he said with a faint sigh, poison could counteract poison.

She reached out and clasped his hand in hers. His head turned towards her and she saw the haunted weariness in his face, the same weariness that could be seen in her own. She felt a kinship with him then, and knew by the sudden widening of his eyes that he did too.

They lived under the same shadow, and maybe together they could come into the light.

END PART ONE.


	2. Descent

Disclaimer: Alias is not mine.

Title: Descent

Author: Ayaren (aka Abyssinian)

Rating: G (I suppose)

Timeline: AU S2 post-Indicator.

Summary: He had agreed to help her, and he was a man of his word.

**

* * *

Broken Part Two: _Descent_**

He did not know how long they had been sitting together but a glance out the window at the dawn-stained sky told it him it had been nearly half the night. Neither of them had really slept, they were still enemies after all, but he knew he had drifted between sleeping and waking more than once yet remained always alert to the slightest movement of the woman next to him.

She was still seated there, brown eyes darkened in thought and her left leg pressed against his right, the only part of their bodies touching. It was all they needed to draw comfort in their shared disillusionment. She had barely spoken a word since her initial outburst, preferring the silence he was more than willing to grant.

What could he say aloud that his continued presence alone did not? He would offer no false words of comfort and she would not accept them. Instead he used the quiet to sort back through every memory he had of her, searching for the moment he knew must exist; the moment she had lost herself. Had it really been his words that pushed her over the edge, or was she already falling and he had simply been the one to deliver the final blow?

A ragged sigh issued from her lips, drawing his attention to her face as she glanced at him. He saw the reluctance in her expression and knew what she was going to say. She had to leave, it was not yet the time for her to stay.

He offered her the use of his shower and she accepted gratefully. She rose stiffly, her muscles protesting at the movement, and stretched her arms. He watched her disappear into the bathroom, softly closing the door behind her, and then stood. Making his way over to the bed he picked up his cell phone from where he had dropped it earlier.

Quickly dialling a number he knew by heart, and of which even Irina Derevko had been unaware, he studied the panelling of the bathroom door as he waited for the person on the other end to answer. Issuing a brief set of instructions he ended to call and tossed the phone down again, sighing as he made his way to the wardrobe for a fresh set of clothes.

He had agreed to help her, and he was a man of his word.

While he waited for her he wandered over to the kitchenette and made himself a cup of coffee before retrieving the newspaper left outside his door. He was seated at the dining table scanning through the headlines when she emerged from the bathroom. She looked better, the hot water having brought a faint flush of colour to her cheeks, but there was still a pained glint to her eyes.

She declined the offer of coffee, her flight was leaving this morning, and he promised to contact her soon. She smiled and then leaned over to brush her lips over his cheek, murmuring her thanks.

He started at the action, eyes widening in surprise. She laughed softly and glided away without another word. He watched her go, pulling the door closed behind herself, and lowered the newspaper with a heartfelt sigh, still flustered. His eyes turned unseeing to the words spread out in front of him. This was what he wanted, to be her partner, to work with her, so why did he feel like it was all so wrong?

Was it because she had come to him like that, a broken doll in need of repair? Did she really think he was the one who could do it? He hoped not, that burden was too much for him to even consider bearing. What man could ever hope to fix all the problems in Sydney Bristow's life? His mind briefly flicked to the Boy Scout but he dismissed the man immediately, she had come to him for a reason. She believed in no one else.

She had lost faith, and she was willing to try anything if it meant salvaging some part of what she had been.

He carefully placed her in the back of his mind as he showered and dressed, trying to ignore the lingering scent she had left behind, and left the hotel without a trace. But even as he resolved to ignore her she crept back and he found himself wondering.

Did she really understand what she was asking him for? She wanted freedom, he knew that, but even he admitted that was something he could never give her. There would be no American Dream. No house with a white picket fence, children, an SUV and a dog. He could give her none of that. All he offered was running away, hiding who she was for the rest of her life, her _short_ life.

Did she realise she was exchanging one life of deception for another? Somehow, despite that naiveté he had witnessed in her on occasion, he thought she did. She would not have come to him if she had not been certain it was her only possible course of action. But then, he knew she was susceptible to rash decision-making. Daniel Hecht was proof of that.

He wanted her to see. He wanted to show her what this life really was. She had seen both sides in SD-6 and the CIA but she still could not understand. At SD-6 her exposure to the darker aspects of their world had been limited. She had not killed in cold blood. She had not taken life for money. She had not faced the world alone with no one to turn to. She always had a shoulder to cry on, he chuckled faintly, even his.

That night, a whole continent away, he eyed the folder lying next to him. His next assignment. An operative in the Man's organisation whom he had discovered was an agent from British Intelligence. Blue eyes narrowed as he considered it and he rose to pour himself more wine. His gaze travelled back to the folder as he raised the glass to his lips. Yes, that would do nicely. She would discover what the CIA and SD-6 had always sheltered her from. He would bring her into the real world, on his terms.

He would show her what it meant to be the daughter of Irina Derevko.

She was in Paris when he came for her, slipping into her hotel room in the early hours of the morning, handing her a set of clothes and telling her follow him. She hesitated before complying and then glared and grumbled all the way down to his waiting car, demanding to know what was so important it could not wait. Dixon was in the room next door and she was afraid he would discover her missing.

Sark just smiled and courteously helped her into the car before striding around and slipping into the driver's seat. He told her to be patient. All would be revealed in time.

She glared at him again and muttered something sulkily about arrogant British assassins and jet lag. He smirked and pulled out into the traffic.

The club was like a thousand others across the world. But after tonight Sark knew that it would never be the same again. Not for him, and not for Sydney. He briefed her in the car, taking particular care to ensure she knew exactly who the target was, and more importantly who he worked for.

He gave her the chance to back out, some small part of him hoping that she would. Instead she gave him a look that meant business and held out a hand for the knife he was holding. With a pleased smirk he led her inside, an arm draped casually around her waist.

He waited in the shadows as she made her way towards the mark, hips swaying slightly to the beat of the music. Silently impressed he watched her ingratiate herself with that Sydney Bristow charm that could have any man begging for her. Except him, he reflected, she had never tried it on him.

It took only a few minutes for her to disappear from his line of sight with the British agent, and only a few more for her to return alone. Her mouth was set in a hard line and there was something frighteningly empty about her eyes. They left wordlessly and he made no move to touch her this time.

She began laughing as they drove away. At first it was faint, barely audible, but it soon grew in volume. It was a hysterical laugh that spoke of a sudden fear of freedom. He had given her a release, and as he watched her out of the corner of his eye he did not feel the relief he had expected, only sadness.

She had lost something tonight. He was not going to be clichéd and label it her innocence. Sydney Bristow had never been innocent, not with Arvin Sloane as her boss. Yet there was something that had set her apart from him, her belief in the right of things, and he had taken it away from her. A part of him, the conscience he had long denied an existence, told him that he should have said no that night in the hotel. He should have sent her back to the CIA with his trademark smirk and a shake of his head so that they could meet once again in the field, as adversaries. She would be fighting for her country; he would be fighting for himself. That was the way things should be.

She was good and he was bad, and that was all he needed to know, she had told him once. Now, with her laughter in his ears and the maddened sparkle in her eyes, he realised that the distinction was now irrelevant. He was still bad but was she good any more?

He had agreed to help her and now she was willing to follow him as he gave her all the blood she wanted until her thirst for vengeance was sated. His fingers gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He had her now, she was going to be his, but at what cost?

A different part of him said it did not matter, that it was acceptable for him to put his own self-interest ahead of everyone else's, even hers. A selfish creature by nature, he knew that part was right and quashed whatever disagreement his conscience tried to voice. She was his now and he was willing to do anything to keep her, even destroy everything that made her the sainted Sydney of the CIA.

When he dropped her back at the hotel she kissed him and he sensed the despair she was desperately trying to hide from him. He pulled away from her and told her no. She did not want it anymore than he did. She just wanted someone to prove to her that she was still real, still worthy of feeling. He knew; he had done the same with Allison.

Tears glistened in her eyes as she apologised breathlessly and clambered out hastily without her usual grace. He followed and caught her arm before she could escape inside. He understood what they were, he said, and when she finally did they could take that step if they wanted to. Until then she had to go back.

She forced him to promise again and he complied gladly to reassure her. Not everyone in her life had abandoned her, even if he was the enemy. Again he would contact her, and this time it would be final.

Without another word she left him, returning to her old life to say farewell to the people who had been unable to save her; had never known she needed saving in the first place.

Days later he met her at the airport, easily picking her out from the crowd pushing through the arrival gate despite the platinum blonde wig and sunglasses. As he approached her he allowed himself a faint smirk of triumph. No matter what persona she wore he could always pick her out with that instinctual recognition that lingered between them. He had recognised her in Denpasar, he could recognise her now.

She removed the sunglasses when she saw him, tucking them into her handbag as she waited for him to reach her side. A genuine smile broke across her face and she slipped her hand into his, gripping tightly for a moment and then letting go. She thanked him softly, and her eyes betrayed her relief from the fear he would not have come.

He found himself returning the smile with one of his own and took the opportunity to drop a kiss on her forehead before stepping away again; partly to see the same surprise in her eyes that he knew had been in his in the hotel room that morning, and partly because he could.

There was a car waiting, he told her before she could speak, though he knew she wanted to. He caught her gaze with his, it was not too late yet and she could still return to LA if she wished.

She shook her head and then leaned up and kissed him, just as she had done in Paris, and this time he let her. The desperation was still there and it was his as well. She had seen something of him that night ―the weariness and the fear that it was all for nothing― and he was finally ready to admit it to himself.

He was lost, had been for a long time. His true purpose had drowned in a life of blood, of death and of pretending he did not care. He glanced at the woman beside him as she followed him outside and knew he was using her the same way she was using him. He was afraid of moving forward on his own, but with her at his side he might find the courage to acquire a new purpose.

Bitter amusement washed over him and he laughed quietly. Here they were, two enemies so broken by the world that they could only trust each other. Because he knew she trusted him to protect her, the hotel had proven that, and, out of courtesy, he could rely on her in return.

One day, she said as she sensed the change his revelation wrought within him, they would find what they were looking for. One day it would end.

One day, he agreed, wishing more than believing his own words. Maybe the end would come, but he wondered if it was the end she wanted. He found he did not really care; he was content to live in this world of shadows as long as she was by his side, no matter what happened. She needed him to heal her wounds, and he needed her to do the same for him in return.

They were bound together, not by happiness, kindness or even love, but by a promise of vengeance against those who had wronged them. Yet there was also a promise of freedom if he was willing to take it when the opportunity arose.

END PART TWO.


	3. BlackWinged Angel

Disclaimer: Alias is not mine.

Title: Black-Winged Angel

Author: Ayaren (aka Abyssinian)

Rating: G

Timeline: AU AU S2 post-Indicator.

Summary: One day she was gone.

**

* * *

Broken Part Three: _Black-Winged Angel_**

One day she was gone.

There was nothing to suggest she was hours from abandoning them as she tried not to giggle at Marshall's stuttering antics and hugged Dixon warmly before leaving SD-6 to secretly visit her mother, imprisoned within the depths of the CIA taskforce centre.

She kissed her father's cheek and exchanged a smile with Vaughn before pleading weariness to escape home to the apartment she shared with Francie.

She vanished before she stepped through the front door.

They found her car in a parking lot at LAX, wallet lying abandoned in the glove box with her credit cards and drivers licence still inside.

Foul play was their first instinct. But the black and white footage from airport security cameras was enough to disabuse them of that notion. Watching her stride confidently to the toilets and then disappear into another, unknown disguise was enough for them to realise she had run.

Run from what? No one had an answer. Her colleagues at the CIA knew she desired nothing more than to see SD-6 in ruins over the death of her fiancée. Where would she go?

Why did she leave?

They suspected Irina knew, she had been the last person Sydney spoke to, but the woman known to the dark world she inhabited as 'The Man' merely shook her head when questioned, loose brown hair rippling with the movement.

When they turned away in defeat that enigmatic half-smile she used to confound ally and enemy alike flickered across her lips. She would say nothing, though her information would have done them no good. Her daughter was nearly as adept at keeping secrets as she was.

They searched for her. She was their Sydney, the heroine of their tale of good versus evil. Careful to avoid the SD-6 operatives that also scoured first Los Angeles and then the world the CIA searched for her.

And found nothing.

It was left to Will to explain everything to the distraught Francie, who could not understand why her best friend had suddenly disappeared without saying goodbye or taking anything from their house with her.

Vaughn mourned what could have been and then gave Alice the ring she had been hinting at for months.

Dixon often found himself eyeing the empty desk across from him, fiddling absently with his earpiece as he spoke distractedly on the phone.

Weiss would grimace and shift in the narrow hospital bed, gaze falling on the plant sitting by the window.

Marshall scuttled around SD-6 with his nervous stutterings less often, preferring to immerse himself in the tiny world of his lab.

Kendall's scowl became a permanent fixture. She had done nothing but antagonise him, yet he knew that without her the Alliance would not fall so easily.

Sloane mouthed thoughtless platitudes and continued with his business, occasionally sparing a thought for the bright young woman he once considered the daughter he had never had.

Jack wilted a little more each time they reached another dead end. His face remained as impassive as ever, but his eyes betrayed a grief that penetrated to the depths of his soul.

Irina paced her cell, dark eyes unfathomable.

* * *

They were only small things at first. Jack reported that Sloane was growing frustrated over a spate of failed missions. Kendall growled in irritation as the CIA suffered the same indignity, seven agents either hospitalised or dead and four missions gone sideways in the space of a week. 

Rumours surfaced from the darkness. Informants spoke in hushed tones about a mysterious new organisation that was quickly gaining power over the established crime syndicates and terrorist cells that operated worldwide.

They struck without warning the reports said. Crippled establishments the CIA had classified as unassailable. Stole billions and vanished before the dust settled on the bodies they left behind.

Months later the first sighting was reported.

The devil who possessed the face of an angel, his chilling blue gaze a familiar fixture from the days of Derevko's reign. They had thought him dead, his fabled luck finally run out in a nameless city somewhere. He sneered charmingly and showed them what it meant to have attained the rank of the Man's favourite lieutenant at such a young age.

By his side was always the woman who had professed to loathe everything he represented. Brown eyes stripped of their innocence as she carved out her own place in her mother's blackened empire. She was a younger version of the one they used to fear. That same enigmatic smile turned their blood to ice, its effects enhanced by the determination she had gained from her father.

Within the CIA they waited for confirmation of these alleged sightings. Troubled glances were exchanged and breathless denials muttered continually with shaking heads. It was not her. Not her. She was good. She was not like the woman who remained locked in the cell not far from where they stood.

When it came, Jack Bristow wept a brief scattering of tears before informing the woman who had been his wife, his mouth set in a thin line. He accused her and she merely smiled, shaking her head.

Vaughn found himself flicking through the growing file of photographs and video stills whenever he had a spare moment. Every time he looked his eyes searched her face for a reason. Always he wondered why.

She was in some nameless café, an empty plate in front of her and a coffee cup in her right hand as she smiled at the blonde man seated next to her. The fingers of her left hand were laced with his on top of the table, one of his eyebrows raised in response to her amusement.

She was walking calmly through the doors of a building, her head held high and her hair cropped short so that it fell just above her shoulders. She carried a briefcase in one hand, the other rested on the arm of her companion. His head was turned slightly to face her, his face as expressionless as ever as he spoke to her.

She was crouched behind a desk, her hair pulled back from her face in a tight braid and her body clothed black from neck to toe. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration as she aimed the weapon in her hand at the enemy who had trapped her. Beside her knelt the blonde, his clothing as dark as hers, gun down for the moment as he slid in another clip. Their shoulders touched as they tried to present as small a target as possible.

She was moving undisguised through the streets of a nameless city, seemingly unconcerned about being recognised. She wore a casual shirt and jeans and one hand clutched a handful of expensive-brand shopping bags. The other reached up to grab the sunglasses the man at her side held playfully out of reach, a mischievous smirk curving his lips. His free arm was wrapped around her waist and he looked like any ordinary man in his faded denim jeans and leather jacket.

Picture after picture. Scene after scene. Her. Him. Always together. Some part of their bodies always touching, however minutely. Talking. Kissing. Walking. Killing.

Vaughn searched, and what he found made him wish he had not even opened the folder.

Sydney cared for the angel-faced assassin.

Loved him perhaps? Vaughn would never know. But it was enough to tell him that he had lost her. Even before Alice had become his wife he had lost Sydney Bristow. Lost her to the most undeserving creature to ever walk the earth.

Perhaps she had thought she could redeem him. Provide him with the conscience he had been stripped of decades ago by Irina's calculated manipulations. Instead he had taken hers from her. Shown her what it was to be a Derevko in their world, rather than a Bristow.

* * *

She caught Sloane in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle and the Alliance crumbled within days as the entire ranking leadership was outed in a similar manner, though not by her personally. The CIA dutifully cleaned up the mess and Dixon and Marshall were welcomed into the fold. 

A guarded hope returned to Jack's eyes as he read the reports.

They thought that was the end of it all. That she would come back now that she had payed for Danny's death in blood. They thought she would give herself in and tell them it had all been an act. That somewhere inside she was still the white-winged angel they loved and that she would provide them with the keys to her empire's destruction.

But when it came, the confrontation was more than enough to convince them that she was beyond their offers of redemption.

Her wings were as black as her mother's now.

She shot Vaughn without a moment's hesitation, three bullets aimed at his heart. He only survived because she had not anticipated the bullet-proof vest. She did not glance back as he collapsed, the force propelling him back into a wall and unconsciousness.

Dixon chased after her, screaming for her to listen, pleading with her to come back. He told her he forgave her for keeping the truth from him and that he still loved her even as he aimed his gun at her head.

She stopped and turned, her mother's smile dancing on her lips as she dared him to pull the trigger. He never saw the blonde wraith glide up behind him. Never knew who sent him to the hospital with a knife wound in his back that took months to heal. But he could guess.

Vaughn wanted to hate her, but somehow he could not forget the young woman who had bulldozed into his life with that ridiculous red hair and a determination to see SD-6 and the Alliance in ruins.

He was not the only one who wondered where that young woman had gone. What had prompted her to leave that woman behind? What had broken her enough for Sark to pick up the pieces and rearrange them to his own satisfaction? What had made her love him?

It could be love, Vaughn mused. In some twisted way it could be love.

When he asked her she laughed in his face and tried to kill him.

They caught her once, injured and unprepared. They had not expected to find her and counted it good luck when they threw her into the cell next to her mother's. Everyone made the pilgrimage to stare at her through the glass, asking her to give them the one answer they craved.

Why?

She refused to say and stared impassively back, sending them away with a grieving shiver at the total lack of feeling in her once sparkling brown eyes.

They thought Sark would just abandon her as he had abandoned Irina. Give his classic line about flexible loyalties and save his own skin as he had done countless times before. But they did not realise how much Sydney had affected him until it was too late. He killed three agents out of spite, hunted them down for the fun of it before demanding her immediate return.

It was love, Vaughn finally confirmed, seeing the truth behind the blue eyes in those photographs, it was twisted and it was drenched in blood but it was love.

Kendall ignored the blonde devil's demands and lost them Irina too.

Sark took Jack and ten other agents from around the world. His message was clear enough and for their return he received not one but two Derevko women. He had not abandoned Irina in the end, even though the loyalty she had prided him for was now focussed solely on her heir.

Irina saw what Sydney had become and her eyes clouded with grief as she watched her daughter and her former lieutenant embrace. This was not what she had intended.

Jack stood in the centre of the cell his daughter had called home for the past two weeks and felt his heart withering in his chest. This was not what he had intended.

They were angels with black wings and together they ruled the world.

END PART THREE


	4. Acceptance

Disclaimer: Alias is not mine.

Title: Acceptance

Author: Ayaren (aka Abyssinian)

Rating: G

Timeline: AU S2 post-Indicator; set during Black-Winged Angel.

Summary: Vaughn comes to a realisation about Sydney's betrayal.

**

* * *

Broken Part Four: _Acceptance_**

Michael Vaughn would always remember the day Sydney Bristow bulldozed her way into his life with that shocking head of red hair and a desire for revenge which honestly made him want to cringe and hide away.

That day he had thought she was insane and ill-suited to the task at hand. Their second meeting did little to change his opinion. She was too stubborn to make an effective double agent. She did not respect his position as her handler. She was so damn self-assured and she would not listen to him when he tried to explain that she was in for a long haul. He had hated her for it.

But somewhere during those first months that hate had disappeared until she was all he thought about. As Weiss had kindly reminded him more than once he had a girlfriend. Kind, innocent, shy little Alice, the complete antithesis of Sydney Bristow. It was not Alice who had kept him lying awake at night, staring at the darkened ceiling in dreadful anticipation that something had gone wrong in Paris, Moscow, Lisbon or Stockholm or any number of exotic locations.

At some point in their ritual of wrong numbers and midnight meetings at the warehouse or the pier he had done the unthinkable and thrown the rule book out the window. Because somewhere between the sleepless nights and overwhelming relief when he knew she was safe he had fallen in love with her.

She had trusted him when she had no one else. She turned to him because her father had betrayed her and because Will and Francie were ignorant of the life she led. But he had clung to the normalcy that Alice provided, the escape from this life of international crime and mysterious six hundred year old prophets.

Maybe that was why she had chosen _him_ instead.

Maybe that was why he found himself staring through the glass that separated them with so many questions on his lips but no voice to ask them.

Maybe that was why he still did not understand.

His first thought when he had made the journey down here and caught a glimpse of her rising from the concrete floor was that she looked just like her mother, who resided several cells down. Loose brown hair curling down her back, a knowing glint in her hardened brown gaze and the enigmatic Derevko smile hovering on her lips.

When he first met her she had possessed an air of innocence that had endeared her to him, and that he had hoped she would never lose, despite the world she lived in. But his hope had been in vain. His Sydney Bristow was gone, and in her place stood a copy of the most despicable woman to ever walk the earth. The Derevko blood ran true in their family, he reflected. And never was there a realisation he hated more.

He searched her face for some clue, for some reason why. But she gave away nothing, Jack had taught her well about concealing her emotions. But someone else had added the finishing touches until only ice remained. Vaughn could guess who that someone had been, and he felt an itch in his trigger finger.

Death, and nothing less, would be the punishment for stealing Sydney's innocence.

He cleared his throat and inwardly winced when she arched an eyebrow delicately in amusement. She had learned well how to act in the company of captors.

"Why?" he finally managed to whisper hoarsely.

Silence. And then an innocent, "Why what?" in a soft tone that sent a shiver down his back like a caress. He still wanted her, craved to touch her and hear her whisper his name as he had imagined it before, when she was still his Syd.

He licked his lips nervously, her unblinking stare beginning to unnerve him and reminding him all too well of the woman who had bequeathed it to her. "You," he continued shakily, "and Sark. Why?"

She laughed. Brief, cold, amused. "Is that all, Agent Vaughn?" she murmured, "Me and Sark?" Her eyes mocked him.

"Why?" he repeated in a firmer tone, slightly disappointed at the formality of her address. He did not bother with any of the other questions he was supposed to ask. He had to know what the cocky son of a bitch had that he did not. He had to know why she had chosen to care about such an undeserving creature.

Somehow he had forgotten that he was the one who had balked from a relationship with her. Before she left he had Alice. She had no one.

He felt her considering him, her head tipped to one side and her brown eyes narrowed slightly. The silence dragged on and he suppressed the urge to shift his weight as the soles of his feet protested at staying utterly still for so long. He met her gaze squarely, mustering all the strength he had to match her.

At length her lips quirked into a fleeting smile. "He accepts me," she said quietly, "all of me."

And with that she turned away and knelt gracefully, imitating the meditative position Irina Derevko often took, signalling this interview was over. He remained frozen for several seconds, part of him amazed at how both these women managed to control everything as if they were not the ones held prisoner.

He considered it that evening as Alice fussed in the kitchen, stared at the hockey game on television with unseeing eyes. All he saw was _her_ face in his mind and her words echoing in his ears.

_He accepts me, all of me._

Hours later, when Alice had gone to bed and he had muted the game, a glimmer of understanding flickered in his head.

_He accepts me, all of me._

Sark was an enemy, an agent who destroyed lives rather than saved them. Sark was a thief, a liar and an assassin. Sark was a killer, but Sydney had killed too in the line of duty.

_He accepts me, all of me._

Sark worked for Irina Derevko, and there was every indication that he had been with her for most of his life. He had been carefully groomed to lose whatever conscience he had been born with. His heart had been walled away, leaving a cold detachment in its place. But Sydney had learned the hard way what having a heart meant.

_He accepts me, all of me._

Sark had black wings to go with his angelic face. But Sydney had black wings as well. There was a part of her that Jack had ruthlessly tried to suppress over the years, the part that Vaughn had tried to ignore as he found himself becoming more and more enamoured of her. But Sydney Bristow was Irina Derevko's daughter as well as Jack Bristow's.

_He accepts me, all of me._

Sark accepted that she was not perfect, that there was a darkness in her soul that craved to be heard. He did not try and scrub away the blood that stained her hands and pretend that it did not exist.

_He accepts me, all of me._

The final realisation led Vaughn to the bottle of wine left over from dinner with Alice's parents last week. Sark had broken through the porcelain mask that was Sydney Bristow and found the Sydney Derevko that dwelled beneath it.

Watching the red liquid swirl around in the wineglass he had collected on his way back to the couch, Vaughn's mind lingered on her face as he turned to the most heart-wrenching of questions he had not dared to ask. Did she love Sark?

He did not think he wanted to know.

_He accepts me, all of me._

But deep in his heart he knew she did.

END PART FOUR.


	5. Endgame

A/N: I want to say thanks to all those who reviewed the previous instalments. I know it's taken months but I've finally got the last part here for you, so please enjoy. 

Disclaimer: Alias is not mine.  
Title: Endgame  
Author: Ayaren  
Rating: PG (cos it's a bit dark)  
Timeline: Last in the Broken Series:  
Broken I: Under a Shadow  
Broken II: Descent  
Broken III: Black-Winged Angel  
Broken IV: Acceptance  
Broken V: Endgame

Summary: Her appearance, mere metres away, changed everything. And then everything changed into Hell.

Warning: ANGST –though really, the whole damn series has been one long angst-fest!

* * *

Michael Vaughn stood in the ruins of what had once been a warehouse of no particular consequence. Only two days ago it had been a meaningless place, a building as unremarkable as so many billions like it spread across the globe. Now it was gone, and it had taken so much more than its four walls with it.

He moved further into the broken remains, treading carefully over shards of concrete and metal until he reached the last spot he had seen them alive. He watched in silent detachment as the forensic staff combed the rubble with mechanical precision. He watched the medics bear the bodies away with the stoic expressions of people who had done so a hundred times before.

He watched and wished he could weep for the dead. But all the remained in his heart was a numb relief. The pain, the guilt that he had been carrying for so long, had lessened in the past hours. The burden of trying to avoid what had become inevitable was gone. And he did not mourn it, even if he had failed.

It had taken nearly four years but now it was over. It was done. He could finally lay the worst of his ghosts to rest.

Footsteps crunched in the debris behind him and Marcus Dixon fell in beside him. Neither man spoke, but they were both thinking the same thing as their eyes rested on that one spot where the one betrayal neither had ever come to terms with had finally ended.

She had finished it, but it was too early for Vaughn to understand who the real winner was.

In the beginning it had been just like any other mission. Sneak in to the warehouse, steal the required object and somehow get out without triggering any alarms. Same old pattern, same old song.

Somewhere in the middle, however, the familiar rhythm had been interrupted. A discordant note sounded in the empty container and the flash of blonde hair as a furtive figure darted around a corner in the maze of crates.

The CIA agents had given chase, they needed those discs and the chance to capture the elusive Mr Sark was too tempting to pass up. For some it was the prestige of being the one to bring in a notorious criminal, for others the matter was personal.

Sark was their only lead on _her_; their fallen angel, their faithless Sydney.

At first Vaughn had been intent on capturing the blonde, but then he had heard a voice calling to his prey, urging Sark forward, and he had recognised it as hers.

Her appearance, mere metres away, changed everything. And then everything changed into Hell.

Sark went down first, his demon-born luck finally failing him as the hail of bullets ripped through his lower body, below the protective armour of his vest. Eyes that had no right to be so pure a blue widened in surprise and then blossomed with the pain, giving him a touch of humanity even as he fell. He gave an agonised grunt, blood trickling from his mouth as he bit his lip to keep from crying out and alerting the woman several paces in front of him.

She heard him anyway, felt the instant his presence at her back fell away. Turning without missing a step she ignored the fresh wave of gunfire that peppered the air around her and crouched down over her partner.

Vaughn could not find it in himself to fire on her, even though she had shown no such hesitation in shooting him. He had loved this woman once and, if he was honest with himself, he still did.

The agents around him did not share his inclination for mercy and their gazes were hardened against her pained gasps as several bullets hit home. They had not known her before her defection, did not have that personal connection that had not only Vaughn but Dixon holding back as well.

Those who had not known her could not imagine the closed look on Jack Bristow's face as he listened from the safety of the Ops Centre, the tightening of his lips and the grief shadowing his eyes as Kendall gave the order.

Shoot to kill. She was no longer Sydney, she was Bristow and she was too dangerous to leave alive. She knew about revenge, and they all knew Sark would not make it out alive without some kind of miracle.

She had destroyed the Alliance to reach Arvin Sloane. She had the resources to declare war on the CIA to avenge her lover if she chose.

But, it seemed, even Sydney Bristow knew that it was time for things to end, one way or the other. Later Vaughn would try and understand, but now he only watched in horror as she slipped a hand into the front pocket of Sark's vest and withdrew a small device, no bigger than a cell-phone.

Vaughn felt a shiver of dark premonition and took an unconscious step back, his gun-arm wavering slightly. He had fought beside and against this woman; he knew what she was capable of.

Sydney looked up at them from beside her angelic lover, brushing a loose lock of hair from her face even as the life began leaking from her familiar brown eyes. Go, her expression said and she held up the detonator for them all to see. Not everyone present needed to die tonight.

It was her final gift, an acknowledgement of the years she had been one of them.

Vaughn called for a withdrawal immediately, somehow knowing that she was not bluffing. Not with that look in her eyes, the calm acceptance of the death she had evaded so many times in the past. This time she had nothing to lose.

He had made the right decision because moments later his team was thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion that ripped through the building. Flat on his stomach with his arms protecting his head he wept a brief scattering of tears for the woman whose love he had once been fortunate enough to possess.

Even before the inferno was extinguished and the forensic team brought in they all knew she had not escaped. She could have, Vaughn knew she had not been wholly incapacitated by her injuries, but she had chosen to stay. He felt a twinge of bitterness and banished it almost immediately; there was no use in dwelling on what might have been.

For her, avenging Sark had not seemed worth it in the end. She had chosen to die with the man she loved rather than live alone without him.

With a sigh Vaughn tore his gaze from the place where Sydney Bristow had perished and turned to walk away, his footsteps resounding with the realisation that it was finally over, and when he thought about it he realised it could not have ended any other way.

Sydney had always known she would end her life where it had begun; on the job; in the field; under fire. Sark was the same. And that alone made him worthy of her.

* * *

The cold, dawn light filtered through the nearby trees as the lone man traversed the maze of tombstones, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his heavy, grey jacket to ward off the chill.

Nearing his destination his determined stride faltered momentarily as he set eyes on the figure already present. Even from the back, and swathed in a large coat and scarf, he could recognise the dark hair and stance immediately. It was fitting, he supposed, that she would be here the first time he had dared to visit this place.

She had probably known it would be today before he did. She always knew.

He did not acknowledge her as he reached the pair of graves where she stood. Instead he let his eyes trace the name and date carved into the closest stone, his breath hitching silently in his throat as he wondered what parent should ever have to stand by their child's grave and mourn.

He had tried so hard to protect Sydney from the world, but in the end he had been unable to save her from herself.

Noting the twin angels carved into each gravestone he knew instantly they were the work of the woman next to him, her own way of acknowledging the connection between the two deceased. They had both been her children in one way or another; one the child of her body, the other of her mind. And she had loved them both as well as she could.

It was her tribute; they were angels who had fallen but who found each other anyway.

Sighing softly he turned to look at the woman standing silently beside him. She was watching him, the usual hardness in her gaze tempered by grief. "Irina," he accompanied her name with a sharp nod.

She responded with a melancholy smile, "Jack."

Almost unconsciously he moved and slipped an arm around her, drawing her against him. Usually he loathed physical contact but he knew they both needed to feel close to someone in this place. She tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder, one hand clutching at his clothes as if he were suddenly the only thing holding her upright.

"No parent should ever have to bury their child," she whispered hoarsely, unconsciously echoing his earlier thought, "Not even parents like us." And she buried her face in his jacket and wept. She wept for Laura Bristow who had wished her life was real. She wept for Irina Derevko who had forgotten what it was to love and then rediscovered how six years earlier.

She wept for the daughter she never really knew and the son she never wanted but could not help loving. She wept for the happily ever after that had never been possible.

The man who had once been her husband held her with a tenderness he had not felt for a long time and stared silently at the stone angels as she shuddered with grief in his arms. He felt the wetness on his own face and bowed his head, letting his famed mask crack and fall away for the first time since he had lost his daughter.

He had tried to protect her for so long, but in the end Sydney had chosen a path he could not follow. Even as he hated Sark for what she had become, he knew there was no other man to whom he could have let her go.

Together, the graves said, in life and in death always together.

Jack Bristow never found that peace, but he was thankful his daughter had.

END PART FIVE.

* * *

END OF THE BROKEN SERIES. 

A/N: Please don't hate me, this was the conclusion that my muse wanted, and I don't think darkSyd could have ended happily ever after anyway.

And I know Irina and Jack are kinda out of character in the last part but I figured that losing someone as precious as them as Sydney would make them grieve at least once together before they went back to being their usual selves. And actually, after watching their interaction in S4 I think they aren't that OOC.


End file.
